


life is a road

by orphan_account



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Medical Treatment, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, its the 18th century what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Easy, Dr. Enys,” Ross urges, kneeling at his friend’s side. In the dim glow of candlelight, the concern on his face is plain, but as Dwight shifts his fevered gaze to look at him, he summons a chuckle. “How the tables have turned. It appears you’re our patient now.”





	life is a road

**Author's Note:**

> Look, fair warning. 18th century medicine? Confusing. Do I understand it? Nah.
> 
> Did I just really, really want to see a Dwight sickfic where he gets the love and attention he deserves? Yeah, man. Oh yeah.

By late morning, the sun has gone dark in the sky, and a chill carries on the air. Billowing clouds stirs against the bright Cornwall sky, smothering light wherever they can reach it; long shadows cast through the windows, draping the house in gloom. One sniff of the heaviness in the air, and Demelza knows they’re due for a storm.  
  
“Big one, too,” she warns Prudie as they hasten to buckle down the house in preparation. Her mind is half on the windows she’s pressing shut, half on her babe, asleep in his crib just upstairs. A mother worries, of course — and Judas knows she’s got every right to, after Julia — but Jeremy has been fearing loud noises lately, and thunder might just be the worst of them. Should he sleep through the storm, it’d be a god-fearing miracle.   
  
As hours wind by, slow as trickling molasses, the storm finally hits; and, as Demelza knew it would be, it’s a terror. First, the rain, steady drizzle turning to a downpour. Then the first peak of thunder rolls across the coast, sweeping in from the sea. It rattles the walls, the floors, inside her bones. Demelza pauses in her sweeping for just a moment, gaze drifting out the window, to the black skies and shadowed fields beyond.   
  
Through the rain, through the storm, something else is moving — a dark shadow, a figure on horseback, headed for the house.   
  
She sets her broom aside, sweeping towards the door seconds before their visitor can reach it. He does not get the chance to knock before she has swung the door open. Immediately, an assault of wind and rain hits her square on, nearly driving her back to the safety of the hearth once more; but there, back against the storm, stands a haggard figure she immediately recognizes.   
  
“Dwight!” Demelza exclaims in surprise, ushering her husband’s friend inside. “This is an unexpected surprise.”   
  
Dwight Enys sheds his hat with a hint of sheepishness — which may have something to do with the water he’s dripping all over her floors. “I apologize for dropping in on you, Demelza. The weather came on so suddenly... I feared it unsafe to ride any further.”   
  
Unsafe is right, but Demelza won’t hear any apologies. “Nonsense. At least you had the good sense to stop here — come in, and have a warm blanket for you, you’re shivering.” The distinct tremor to Dwight’s lanky frame is only move obvious as he sets his coat aside. Rain still dampens his hair, plastering it against his forehead. His skin is white with chill, cornflower eyes discordantly bright set in a face even more tired than usual. Something about Dwight’s dishevelled appearance troubles her. While it is not a concern Demelza can name, she feels it keenly, with all the same certainty that sensed a storm in the air before it hit.   
  
Outwardly, she keeps pleasant; on the inside, however, she studies Dwight like a chess match, like she would her husband when trying to read all he won’t say. “D’you be needing dry clothes, too? Surely Ross has some he can spare. Wouldn’t want you catching a chill.”   
  
“That’s very kind, but I’m alright...” Dwight offers her a smile, lacking all of its usual good-humor. He just looks tired. “My coat and hat bore the brunt of the storm.”   
  
“Y’still be shivering, though.”   
  
When she beckons towards the blazing fire, not another word is needed. As he settles into the plush chair across from her, a great exhale leaves Dwight’s body, something caught between a sigh and a groan. Relief is plain on his pale face for the split-second he allows it to go unguarded. Then, he has schooled himself once more, and the hint of vulnerability slips away, like it was never there at all.   
  
“Thank you,” he murmurs, a hint of distraction in his voice. “Is — is Ross in?”   
  
“Sadly not. He’s gone to town for a shareholders’ meeting — won’t be back ‘til tonight, late, I expect. Said we best not hold dinner, but chances be he’ll forget to eat in town, or else be hungry again soon as he gets home. We’re better off waiting.” Demelza blinks, eyes trained on Dwight’s hands, and Dwight’s hands only. They’re still shaking where the rest of him has stopped, trembling like leaves in a storm. He does not seem to notice; the mercy of a warm fire and soft place to land has stolen all his attention. “Were y’looking to speak with him?”   
  
A beat passes, then another. Dwight does not answer. It takes him a moment too long to realize she has asked him a question, and longer still to gather the words to answer. “I — I apologize, what was that?”   
  
“Were you hoping to speak to Ross?”   
  
He looks utterly lost, a meandering confusion in his hazy eyes. “About... what?”   
  
“That’s my question.” Now she is certain to her bones that all isn’t well. This is not the Dwight Enys she knows; this is not the sharp-minded man who delivered her present child into the world, and ushered her from the brink of it in sickness. “Dwight,” she says, voice gentle as she leans forward. “Are you sure you’re doing alright?”   
  
“Certainly.” He shakes his head, and a bit of awareness slips back into his eyes. He no longer looks as though he doesn’t know where he is, even if his hands are still shaking. “The rain got the better of me, I suppose.” 

“You ain’t warm yet? I’ll get you another blanket.”

“A slight chill, that’s all,” he protests, even as his hostess rises to her feet. “You mustn’t trouble yourself... Demelza, please. I’m alright.”

She hesitates for a long moment, gaze boring into him. Every instinct tells her Dwight is nothing of the sort, but she won’t argue if he clearly won’t admit to anything. Men are all the same, it seems, when it comes to admitting something’s wrong. 

“Well and fine, then,” she sighs. “Warm up. With luck, this dirge’ll pass in the hour, and you’ll be sitting by your own hearth in two.” Turning back to her work, gone abandoned in Dwight’s sudden arrival, she resolved to ignore the nagging instinct that things aren’t well… but a sheep can’t help bleating, a bird has to take wing, and Demelza must pry, just a little. “How be the miners?”

“Still ravaged by this latest affliction.” Exhaustion shadows Dwight’s voice again, and this time it’s origin is not a mystery. The mining communities have been run rampant this past week by an awful ailment, taking more than a dozen men from their jobs; according to Ross, Cornwall’s resident peasant doctor has barely had a moment to rest, running from one house to the next tending patients. “Highly infectious,” Dwight goes on, “and brutal — grown men are most at risk, for it scarcely touches the young. Once the fever sets in, it keeps climbing higher, until the patient has little of their own wits about them. Should it be kept low enough, it will not last past the forty-eight hour mark... but even so, the other symptoms are equally draining. Weakness, headache, nausea… it is nothing merciful.”

Demelza takes careful stock of each symptom he lists, and stores them away, like boxing away winter clothes for the warmer months. Not turning away from her sweeping, she only hums. “We used to have sicknesses like this when I was a girl. Snatched two of my brothers, right from their cribs. Dreadful things.”

For a moment, Dwight is silent — so long, in fact, that she’s almost sure he’s nodded off where he sits. Demelza lets the quiet hang a moment before turning. She expects to see Dwight slumped in his chair, or perhaps cradling his head… not staring into the fire with a distant look in his eyes, as though he’s wandered off somewhere she can’t reach. One step, then another, brings her closer. The floor creaks beneath her weight, but it does not jar Dwight.

His name is on her lips when he suddenly turns, head swiveling for his gaze to catch and lock on hers.

“I pray your family be spared, Demelza. Neither you nor Ross deserve another heartbreak.”

His voice is soft, his words unassuming… but they carry such a depth of sincerity that their meaning cannot be misunderstood. Demelza feels as though she’s been punched in the stomach. It would hurt less than the memory of Julia. _ Sweet Julia… _

He tried to save her. Dwight worked himself to exhaustion, fighting for her own life, and the life of her baby… and he could only save one. Demelza has never blamed him, much as her heart and soul broke a little more every time she remembered her lost child. The fact is, she owes Dwight more than can ever be stated.

On impulse, she reaches out, seizing her guest by the hand and squeezing tight. “Thank you, Dwight. I pray for you as well.” 

Perhaps it is the sting of her own eyes, but it takes a moment too long to register the unnatural heat radiating from Dwight’s bare skin— how, despite his trembling, he’s near as warm as the fire. “You’re awful hot,” she exclaims, drawing back without releasing his hand. In an instant, gratitude turns to alarm. “Burning, in fact!”

“I’m alright, really,” Dwight insists, trying to pull away… but Demelza has had enough.

“You’re not _ alright _ , you’re feverish. Caught the same what’s been tearing through them, I expect.” Her eyes soften in sympathy. “Oh, Dwight...” 

Finally, Dwight manages to pull away; but Demelza is already bubbling over, a thousand causes and effects running through her mind. She thinks of the storm, of the ailing miners, of Dwight all alone in his little cottage with no one to look after him…

“Demelza, you mustn’t worry. It’s no more than a chill... I’ll sleep it away tonight.” Her guest moves to stand, though he seems reluctant to tear himself from the comfort of the fire. That, or he just can’t find the energy to make it to his feet. “If your mind would be… settled by my leaving...”

This is one leap too far. “I won’t hear of it!” she exclaims, hands planting on her hips. “For as long as you be under our roof, you’re our responsibility — and a friend, to boot! Who’ll take care of you out there all alone, when you need to keep the fever down and nightmares away?”

“Please, you needn’t — needn’t risk —“

“I won’t hear it,” she says again, steel at the edges of her voice. Were it any other illness, she’d be more careful, more dread-stricken… but Jeremy is safe upstairs with Prudie, and Dwight has already lain those fears to rest. “It don’t touch children, remember? And Ross is gone ‘til the night. Long as he can’t ride back in this storm, you can’t ride out, so that’s all there is to it.”

And with the glow of her own hearth catching her hair, and the comfort of her home around her, it very well might be. Dwight is Demelza’s guest now, and sick as a dog to boot; there’s nothing more to be said, nothing more to consider. She is already carefully arranging the divan, shifting pillows around to form a makeshift bed. It won’t be comfortable as their own bed, perhaps… but Jeremy does like to crawl in there between his parents at night, and Demelza will only gamble so far.

“Now, lie down here, and we’ll see about getting you some broth.”

If Demelza has had enough, the same could be said for Dwight. Finally, he finds the strength to rise. In one clumsy, unbalanced sweep, he makes it to his feet. It’s a mistake; the blood immediately rushes to his head, sending the world spinning around him. For a moment, he teeters dangerously, like a newborn foal trying to find his footing. His eyes are unfocused, face gaining a steady flush; and when he tries to step forward, he stumbles. The automatic protest on his lips gives way to a soft, startled, “oh,” as the floor rushes to greet him.

Demelza is at his side in a second; good thing, too, otherwise he’d have collapsed. Dizziness weighs him down the entire way to the divan, forcing him to brace most of his weight on her as his feet stumble over themselves. He falls into the makeshift bed with a heavy sigh.

“Here, now,” Demelza urges, adjusting the blankets around him. “There y’are.”

One of Dwight’s hands rises to cradle his forehead. Glassy blue eyes blink rapidly, but this does little to clear them. “I apologize... the room is spinning,” he murmurs. “Give me a moment to... gather my bearings...”

“_ Rest _, Dwight,” she urges again, quickly divesting him of his boots and hoisting his legs up on the divan. He does nothing to protest, allowing himself to be tucked in with all the docility of a rag doll; and, while not quite glowing enthusiasm, Demelza takes the consent for what it is. “Just rest. You’ve nothing else to see to tonight.”

With a flicker of relief, Dwight’s head settles back against the pillow, and he allows his eyes to close — _ only for a moment, _ he insists, though his obvious exhaustion tells a different tale. She tucks the blanket up to his chest and offers him a smile. This is not her first time nursing a body back to health… and he saved her life, tried to save her child. This is the least she owes Dwight Enys. 

* * *

The storm rages on, rattling windowpanes and hammering at the house’s foundations. As the rain’s din grows louder and thunder booms across the fields, Demelza’s little boy cries out for her.

Each one of Jeremy’s shouts tears a gash in her chest; and try as she does to ignore the sting, it’s almost too much to bear. Every instinct urges her to go to him; everything she knows, everything she is, demands she comfort her child when he is crying. But he’s not alone, she must remind herself, as another crash of thunder rattles the house. Prudie’s up there with him. He’s safe with her, safe at home…

Demelza’s got her hands full of a different sort of comfort, and one cannot conflict with the other. For now, Jeremy will have to wait.

_ God forgive her. _

Her mind runs itself wild in the absence of something to occupy it. Reading is no good; she’s too distracted by the storm and company to take in a word. She tries sewing for a time, humming to herself lightly as her fingers make stitch after tedious stitch, until she can’t bear it a second longer. Setting down her work, she finally turns her attention back to her guest. 

Dwight hasn’t moved more than a muscle since collapsing on the couch, but in the hours he’s slept, it’s become clear he’s still at war with his body… and fighting harder with each passing minute. A heavy sheen of sweat glistens over his brow; beneath it, his face is flushed, lips parted to inhale shallow gasps of breath. His eyes dart rapidly back and forth under closed eyelids, as though caught in the grips of a fever dream — but he does not thrash, and he does not wake. When Demelza goes to his side again, with a cup of water and cool compress for his brow, he doesn’t even stir. 

“Dwight. Here, now,” she urges, shaking his shoulder insistently. Even through the fabric of his shirt, he radiates heat. “Wake and have some water. You need it.”

A low groan issues from her patient’s throat, and he coughs several times before forcing his eyes open. Dwight fades back to consciousness slowly, as though not sure where he is, but Demelza’s just relieved to see him awake.

“Is... is the storm...” he says softly, before breaking off into another round of deep coughs.

She rubs his back until he’s finished, and slumped back against the pillows once more. “Still raging, I’m afeared. Ross ain’t home neither.”

“The storm…” Dwight blinks heavily, pushing halfway upright in a body that will not cooperate with him. “I can hear it at the door...”

“Tis only the rain, Dwight,” she says, trying to urge him back down again. Something in his unfocused eyes frightens her; it does not escape Demelza’s notice that he hasn’t looked at her once, or even around the house. If he knows where he is, or who’s with him, Dwight does a poor job at showing it.

“No... the door. I hear... why, don’t you? Don’t you hear the thunder?”

For the first time, his wide, glassy eyes turn on her. Sure enough, there is no recognition in them, only fear. Demelza’s lips purse. “Your fever’s higher than it was.”

He squirms worse than Jeremy at bathtime, pushing against her arms even as she’s determined to keep him down. The cool compress drips in her hand, sending chills down her arm. Before he can protest further, she lays it across his fevered brow, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Dwight’s reaction is immediate and stunned; he gots shock-still, a shiver rolling through his body as he slumps back against the pillow.

“No…” he mutters, struggling to shake the compress off when Demelza forced his hands down at his sides. “It’s cold.”

“We must keep your fever down,” she urges, forcing him to look her in the face. For the first time, she imagines a hint of clarity in his eyes — as though her words, if not their meaning, manage to make sense to him.

“The fever... yes, tame the fever.” Dwight sighs and shakes his head. Somehow, he manages to assume the quiet authority of a doctor, even in the midst of delirium. “Look after it, never... never let it get to the brain. There’s risk of convulsions, especially in... the children...”

He turns his gaze to Demelza, stricken. She hushes his worries away, smoothing the compress along his brow, as though the cool can absorb some of that acursed heat on its own. “Jeremy’s upstairs, just fine. He won’t come near you.” She cannot go near her son for the time being, either... but it isn’t the moment to dwell on that. Lord be merciful, the same misfortune cannot strike her twice. 

“The children…” Dwight emphasizes again, as though this new worry has spawned a dozen more. “I mustn’t rest here. My patients need seeing to.”

He moves so suddenly that Demelza is almost knocked backwards. It’s not Dwight’s fault, of course — but he’s got the balance of a newborn calf, and more urgency than energy. He’s just about stumbled to his feet before his legs give out on him and he collapses back against the couch again. Dazed, Dwight’s fevered gaze swivels around, as though struggling to take in where he is. A second later, he tries for his feet again, but this time Demelza is ready.

“Not in this state, they don’t. _ You’re _ the one needs seeing to.” Firmly, she urges — not _ pushes _, she certainly doesn’t push, that’s no way to treat a patient — him back down on the couch. No sooner is he prone than Dwight is struggling up again, pressing back against her insistent hands. His leg kicks out, nearly catching her; his arm loops around the edge of the couch, nearly rolling him over. With a muffled curse, Demelza really does consider pushing this time. Who’d have ever thought she’d long for the easy patients Elizabeth and Francis made, those awful ages ago? At least they didn’t fuss and fight like a mad steer.

“My patients — I must —“

The world’s most well-intentioned, self-sacrificing, noble-without-season steer. _ Judas _.

“Dwight! Stop! You need to lie down!”

In one quick movement, Demelza gains the upper hand — she’s too used to tussling with siblings, and the equally ruthless Jud and Prudie, to be taken down by Dwight in this state. There’s no sitting on him, but she gets close enough — close enough for her knee to pin down his arm, while she presses against his shoulder with a free hand. The other comes up to his brow, swiping back the strands of golden hair plastered there by sweat. Still burning, and still dreaming awake… her poor friend is not in a good state at all.

“Look at me now,” she urges softly, voice low and tame for his benefit. Dwight’s eyes find hers and hold there, as if he finds a piece of himself in her determined blue eyes. “You’ve got to rest now, Dwight. You’re very ill. Do y’be understanding?”

Something of himself flickers back into his face, and Dwight exhales as though his soul’s going with it. “I’m... I’m with the fever.”

“Yes. Which is why you must let me take care of you. Alright? You’re safe here, and you can rest, but you need to let us help.” She cannot rest easy until he understands for sure. It takes another, more urgent “Alright?” before Dwight slumps back finally, the last of the fight draining from him.

“Mmm... alright.” As soon as he hits the pillow, his eyes flicker shut, as though it’s impossible to keep them open… but the furrow of his brow makes it clear peace isn’t to be found just yet. In a small slurred voice, he manages a murmur of, “‘M sorry.”

“No sorry. You’ve not done a thing wrong,” she replies firmly, finding the compress in the blankets where it fell and draping it over his brow once more. Something in the coolness has the right effect this time, for Dwight sighs, giving himself up entirely to the brief relief. Demelza sees the moment he fades back into delirium, then sleep. Some unrealized tension fades from her own shoulders, and she exhales a breath she did not realize she’d been holding.

Outside, the storm’s steady roar begins to fade. Soon, it has gone entirely, leaving none but silence to echo in its wake.

* * *

When Dwight wakes again, it is with a chest-rattling groan, both hands reaching to cradle his skull before he’s even halfway out of sleep.

“Ohh, my head...” he announces, presumably for his hosts’ benefits.

Demelza’s first instinct is to spring to her patient’s side… but at this time of night, she is not alone, and she does not get there first.

“Easy, Dr. Enys,” Ross urges, kneeling at his friend’s side. In the dim glow of candlelight, the concern on his face is plain, but as Dwight shifts to look at him, he summons a chuckle. “How the tables have turned. It appears you’re our patient now.”

The patient in question is still drifting, and the pain seems to have increased in the hours since he last woke. His entire face twists with it, eyes squinting in agony. Still, he is aware enough to recognize his friend. When Dwight’s hand lashes out, Ross seizes it, gamely allowing Dwight free leave to crack his knuckles in a death grip. 

“Ross… my head. It’s splitting open...”

Demelza straightens up, gaze flickering between her husband and their guest. “Headaches, he mentioned that earlier. Is there anything for the pain?”

Ross looks up at her, grimacing; Demelza can only return his clueless state with one of her own. The typical cure for headaches would be laudanum… but Dr. Enys prescribes a less drastic cure. Namely, one of the remedies he mixes by hand, senselessly labeled in ways only he can understand. Dwight left his medical bag on the table when he came in; Demelza has been through it four times already, seeking to make sense of some kind of cure. The potions Dwight carries, however, may as well be titled in Greek. She can’t make head nor hide of them.

Still, if there were ever a time to try, it’d seem to be now. She scrambled over to the bag once more, encouraged by the mounting severity of Dwight’s groans. One bottle of odd-smelling syrup, several powders, some salve that goes somewhere she can’t begin to guess… and a bottle of tablets, flat and white, probably made by hand. The label is Dwight’s indecipherable chickenscratch, but if Demelza squints, she’s almost certain she can make out pain in there. Somewhere.

The bottle clinks in her hand. She straightens up, eyeing their guest uncertainly. To risk it?

“My _ head! _ Agh!” 

In answer to Dwight’s cry, a wail starts up from beyond the room, attended to by Prudie’s colorful swears.

“For heaven’s sake, Demelza, bring the bottle before the house comes down upon us all!”

There’s answer enough.

Without another second of hesitation, she rushes back to Dwight’s side, shaking the tablets into his hand. Only one, until they’re certain of them — and if it’s any comfort, Dwight doesn’t contradict the treatment, swallowing the pill down with a desperation of a starving man. It takes a few moments — filled with Jeremy’s softening cries, and Dwight’s steadily-evening breaths — before the pill seems to do his job. Dwight slumps back again, utterly spent.

“There, now,” Demelza says softly. “How is that?”

“Hmm. Mmm,” Dwight concurs eloquently.

Ross looks a bit rattled as he stands up again, exchanging a wide-eyes glance with his wife. He hasn’t been home half an hour yet, the storm finally having died down enough for him to make it well into the night. The presence of their friend was surprising enough, but Dwight’s state left Ross with an uncelebrated welcome. Not that he seemed to mind at the time — when has Ross ever shirked from helping a friend?— but seeing the unease plain as day on his face now, Demelza wonders is he doesn’t regret it.

“His temperature hasn’t gone down any,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on where Dwight stirs lethargically in his makeshift bed.

“We wait. We can only wait.”

“Don’t Cornwall have another doctor we can call?”

“Of course, but I hardly trust Dr. Choake enough to treat a paper-cut.” Ross rolls his broad shoulders in a derisive shrug. A sour reply is on the tip of Demelza’s tongue, but it fizzles to nothing as their patient suddenly pushes himself upright, slumping over with a groan. 

“Dwight? Are you alright?”

“I feel…“ 

That’s as much as he’s able to get out in way of words, but other things are very eager to leave him. Dwight presses a hand over his mouth to muffle a queasy noise, and moans again, with a hint more urgency.

That’s all Demelza needs to hear. Hastily, she snatched a bucket from the hearth, and fits it in front of Dwight a second before he doubles over.

For the next few moments, she has the decency to turn away. Ross isn’t as considerate, or doesn’t feel the need to be. He rubs Dwight’s shoulders as he retches and trembles, looking on his friend’s state with a hint of revulsed fascination.

“Quite a sickness,” he remarks, once Dwight has apparently finished. 

“T’aint a chance for gawking,” Demelza huffs, placing the sick bucket nearby — just in case. Her temper is short, but there’s sense in that; she’s been up all day, playing nurse for hours now. A good night’s sleep sounds like heaven. (Though, as she takes careful stock of herself, there’s no ache to her bones nor hammer in her skull; just tired then, and not afever. Thank the Lord for that, May it only keep.) 

“Can I trust you with him til the morn?” she asks, looking at Ross beseechingly. To his credit— for his day has been just as long— her husband caresses her arm, and bows his head. 

“Go. Rest yourself. And if you feel the slightest hint of anything —“

“I’ll go to you in an instant. Don’t worry, Ross.”

He casts her a fond look as she goes, and it warms her all the way out of the room. Before she’s left, as the door’s shutting behind her, she hears her husband settle down in a chair beside Dwight’s sockbed with a great sigh.

“I suppose it’s our battle now, Doctor Enys.”

* * *

He is asleep when she looks in, as she’d hoped he would be. Curled up in his cot, on his stomach with his rump in the air, he looks almost like a doll tossed aside and forgotten; but the soft echo of snoring, and the pleased way his lips move around his thumb, does not leave to question whether he’s comfortable. For all his energy during the day, Jeremy is a sound sleeper.

Demelza pauses against the doorway, leaning in just far enough to see him. Her hand lingers over the frame. If she removed it, nothing would hold her back… and it would be just that easy to step into the room, to go to her child’s side.

As long as he’s at peace… well, that’s all she needs to know. Prudie has been taking good care of him, though according to her, he’s been asking for Mama all day. Even before the storm’s end, the absence of his parents was felt more keenly than the thunder. T’isn’t as though we’ve ever kept away before, Demelza thinks, and ignores the sharp twist in his stomach.

Soon. Soon, she’ll hold her child again, pepper his cheeks with kisses, and make up for the time apart. Soon enough… but for now, the real storm’s yet to pass, and they can only wait it out.

Demelza murmurs a soft goodnight to sleeping ears, and leaves her boy to rest.

* * *

A good night’s sleep turns out to be exactly what her body needed. She wakes slowly the next morning, a sense of syrupy contentment settled in her limbs, turning her head to cotton. Warm, mid-morning sunlight filters in through the window. Outside, birds chirp merrily, glad to greet a new day. Demelza exhales in the quiet, taking just a moment to take stock of herself. Painless throat; clear head; no aches and pains. Healthy as ever.

She rises with a smile on her lips.

This doesn’t fade, even as she steps into the foyer to find poor Dwight still lying where he was left. If anything, her amusement grows; she cannot help a soft huff of amusement at the sight of her husband on his knees, attentively running a compress over his friend’s brow.

At the sound of her, Ross’s head lift. His eyes are bleary, movements slow with exhaustion, but he still smiles to see her. Demelza crosses the room to better observe them both. Dwight is asleep and peaceful. Though the fever flush still shows on his face, he’s clearly had attentive care the whole night through, and it’s done him good.

“Never thought I’d see the day Ross Poldark played nurse,” she remarks lightly. “A fine one you make, too.”

“I’ve never been paid a greater compliment.”

“How is he?”

Ross sighs, straightening up. “The fever’s still raging. I tried to rouse him earlier, but it’s no good — he’s out of his senses. Still taking water, though, which must be a good sign.”

Demelza sighs, laying a hand over her friend’s, just for Ross’s summary to be confirmed. Nothing has broken since last night. This may just as easily be a good thing as bad.

“Get your rest,” she urges, nodding at Ross. “I’ll carry things from here.”

Her husband offers a grateful nod, but his gaze lingers on Dwight. A shared sense of worry keeps Demelza from pulling away, squeezing his hand gently, as though it can offer some kind of comfort. It’s the most either of them can do for now, precious little as it is. Until Dwight’s fever gives, all they can do is wait.

* * *

So, _ wait _they do. For hours on end, stretching on for ages; sponging Dwight’s brow, taming his fever, giving him another tablet whenever the pain seems to get too bad. He sleeps most of the day away, which is a mercy. Seeing the keen-minded doctor so out of himself troubles Demelza nearly as much as the fever. He seems to suffer more awake than asleep, anyways, so the slumber only does him good. She and Ross exchange shifts throughout the day, going several hours on and off. What little they can do, they do. Their attentions are tireless. Still, Dwight Enys shows no signs of waking.

Long past midnight, with the household asleep and night’s breeze filtering in through the half-open window, Demelza has nearly dozed off herself. Slumped in a wooden chair at Dwight’s bedside, her head lolls, eyes drooping as they fix on the glowing hearth. She nearly doesn’t notice the stirring of her patient, or the soft moan Dwight gives as he returns to consciousness.

“What…” he mutters; and Demelza, suddenly awake, whirls to soothe him. If she was hoping for clarity, she is disappointed. Dwight’s eyes are hazy as ever, half-open and distracted. He writhes in bed, using up what little energy he has. Each breath comes in slow, heavy gasps, as if it’s some effort to keep his lungs working. 

Demelza cups his face in hand, concern knitting her brows and lending urgency to her touch. Dwight’s gaze is drawn to her, and holds, though there’s no real recognition in it. He sighs heavily, as though casting out his life’s-breath. “Mmm… I am afire.”

“You’re afever,” she corrects softly, thumb stroking along his heated temple. Whether or not he understands her, the touch is clearly a comfort. Dwight leans into her palm, craving the coolness it provides. Instead of pulling away, Demelza remains, glad to offer any comfort she can. “Not to worry, Dwight. We’re taking good care of you.”

Perhaps he understands her; perhaps he doesn’t. Either way, soon enough he’s asleep again, lulled by the sweet rhythm of Demelza’s favorite lullaby. She does not stop singing until his breaths have evened out, eyes closed, and he seems near content once more.

Even then, she allows the song to go on a bit longer.

* * *

“Demelza?”

The wooden spoon slips out of her hand, landing with a clatter on the table. Whatever mess has just been created goes unnoticed. Demelza is on her feet in a second, eyes wide with hope she dares not voice. Sure enough, a pair of eyes peer at her from the divan, drowsy but focused, free of the fever fog which has plagued them.

“You’re awake!” she exclaims, unable to keep a bright smile off her face. Demelza reaches Dwight’s side in a flurry of skirts and clasped hands, practically dancing on her toes. Ross warned her that his temperature has been lowering through the night --- the news they’d all been praying for, after days of tending and waiting --- but if Dwight’s sensible, it must be true. The sickness has played itself out. “How’re you feeling? Right few scares you gave us along the line, but your fever’s finally broken!”

“I had… a fever?” Dwight blinks up at her, almost comically bemused. Then he takes stock of his surroundings; Nampara ought to be familiar to him after all this time, but it’s certainly not home, and the ache in his limbs must make clear exactly how long he’s been lying still. As awareness settles in, Dwight slumps back, frowning. “What exactly — I’m not sure I understand.”

“You don’t recall the storm?” Demelza is already checking his temperature --- and Dwight, to his credit, obliges. Her heart leaps at coolness beneath her palm. No trace of fever.

“Foggily,” he answers after a long pause, shaking his head. “Everything feels foggy of the last few days. Have I... been much a burden on you?”

Heaven help him, he actually looks bashful. Demelza laughs softly, waving away the apology on his face with warm humor. None on earth who Dwight has helped (and he’s helped a great many people) would resent giving him that help in return. That said, Demelza is very glad he would up at their door, instead of someone less able to care for him.

“Not at all. In fact, you’ve been the ideal patient. Advising us how to avoid infection, even through the worst of your own sickness.”

Dwight huffs, testing his renewed strength to push himself up right. “It seems I have missed quite a show.”

Ross’s heavy footsteps on the floor give his presence away, a moment before crosses the threshold. At the broad grin on her husband’s face, Demelza cannot help smiling too. They’re equally relieved to see Dwight up and about, all their efforts borne to fruit. Ross in particular has been worrying, but in his style, refused to confide in anyone. As he crosses the room to Dwight’s side, he holds himself taller, free of a weight on his shoulders.

“It’s over now, not to worry.” He grips Dwight’s hand in a firm shake --- _ welcome back to the land of the living _ \--- and is clearly pleased by the strength in his friend’s grip. “Do you feel equal to a bit of food?”

Dwight considers. “Yes… I think I could stomach it. Light broth though, with a bit of substance in it… nothing to heavy, or else the constitution may be upset.”

Quick on the draw, Demelza soon has a bowl of their lunch poured out for Dwight as well, carefully handing it over. The soup is steaming, not too hot; Dwight has the sense not to gulp it down immediately, though the gleam in his eyes makes plain how ravenous he is. “It’s good to see you up, Dwight,” she says as he takes his first spoonful.

They make pleasant conversation for a while, almost as though their friend has simply stopped by for an afternoon visit. It all feels ordinary, refreshingly so, and Demelza cannot keep the smile off her lips over topics like the past few days’ weather, or the general health of the mining community.

Only once his bowl is empty and conversation has lulled does another notion occur to Dwight. Suddenly intent, he looks between his two hosts. “And you are both well?”

Demelza exchanges a glance with Ross, and her smile grows. “Not a sign of fever. Jeremy is well too, praise be.”

Dwight sighs, shoulders slumping in relief as the bowl settles back on his lap. The spurt of energy seems to have drained him again, but if he feels recovered enough to joke with Ross, he may well be walking before evening. Perhaps he’ll even be able to make it home again --- something that would certainly put Dwight at ease. That said, Demelza would not be grieved to see their friend spend one last night under Nampara’s roof, so long as they can be certain he’s well.

Whatever’s to come, Ross is just glad Dwight has come back to himself. Clapping his friend on the shoulder, he declares, “the real victory here is to see you healthy.” Dwight nods back, and chuckles --- clearly a bit embarrassed by all the attention, but grateful nonetheless. As Demelza ushers all their bowls away to be cleaned, a new peace has settled within her, and she drifts in it over the quiet strains of her husband and friend’s conversation.

Tonight, she decides, she will tuck Jeremy into bed. Then, tomorrow they will all have breakfast together --- as a family --- and she will kiss his chubby cheeks, and apologize for leaving him so long alone.

Only a pair of strong arms twining around her waist jars her from her thoughts. Humming, she leans back, into Ross, who leans down to murmur in her ear. “It seems our friend will be just fine. Thanks to your attentive care.”

Ross had just as much to do with it, but Demelza takes the compliment for what it is. Turning, she glances back towards the divan, where Dwight is still testing his newly-recovered strength. A smile twitches across her lips. Yes, praises be, everything turned out just fine.

“Good thing, too,” she replies lightly. “What would Cornwall’s miners do without their resident doctor?”


End file.
